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appeared on his face; Gertrude's heart responded with a rush of joy.

"My Morris! My husband!" She wanted to shout it out at the top of her voice. She could almost feel the triumphant shout escaping from her and deafening her with its note of exultation. As though driven by some suddenly released spring, she undressed him, washed his body, cut his nails, combed his hair. She did not yield to the temptation of looking at his face and drinking deep of the beloved features, but kept stealing little glances towards him while she fussed about, as though he were an apparition that might disappear at any moment.

When he finished shaving and turned to her as in the past, she was waiting for him, in her nightgown. Her eyes, veiled behind a mist of tears, melted in his gaze.

"Morris!" She gave his name a slight questioning inflection, and could say no more.

"Gertrude! My wife!" he answered passionately, lifted her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. It was as if the doors of time had shut behind them and they had entered the Palace of Bliss where the clock on the wall ticked eternity. In an age when time had became an agony hardly to be endured, they created a time of their own made up of sighs and kisses and the terrible longing for fulfillment.

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